


Welcome to Camp

by FromFanToStan



Category: One Direction (Band), zayn malik - Fandom
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, Genderbending, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-20 16:11:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16558955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromFanToStan/pseuds/FromFanToStan
Summary: They never flew the same flight. They never flew in designer clothes. They always wore long sleeves. Zayn had had his “Love” tattoo painfully removed from his fingers and had just recently given in to Harry on the smoking lips and the symbols on his fingers in return for Harry removing the cross from his purlicue. Zayn let his hair grow out and to be safe usually wore a beanie and a high-necked shirt. Love was all about compromise.Harry and Zayn are out in private: their families know, their friends know. But who thought the best place to come out in public would be the Met Gala?





	1. The Planning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They never flew the same flight. They never flew in designer clothes. They always wore long sleeves. Zayn had had his “Love” tattoo painfully removed from his fingers and had just recently given in to Harry on the smoking lips and the symbols on his fingers in return for Harry removing the cross from his purlicue. Zayn let his hair grow out and to be safe usually wore a beanie and a high-necked shirt. Love was all about compromise._
> 
> Harry and Zayn have acknowledged their love for each other. They're out, in private. Who thought it was a good idea to come out publcly at the Met Gala?

** Chapter One: Planning **

* * *

“How would you feel about drag? Or well. Not drag specifically, but something that was straddling the line between genders? Would drag be more Camp, or would it just be campy?”

Zayn quirked an eyebrow at the question. Harry had been obsessing over what they were going to wear to the Met Gala, since it would be their first public appearance and Harry was hosting. He’d already been FaceTiming with Anna Wintour and Stephanie--Serena was proving a bit harder to pin down. 

“I would definitely want to think about it. I didn’t mind being Veronica, but heels are sort of out of the question. What did Anna say about us doing a duet? Did you ask?

“I did, and she’s 100% on board. You don’t think it was foolish to tell her? And whatever we choose will have to be thematically aligned.”

Zayn rolled his eyes at Harry directly. He didn’t know Anna Wintour, but Gigi did, and G liked her, said she was scary af but wonderfully helpful and loyal if she liked you, and she never gossiped. So. 

There was so much right now that Zayn didn’t know, but he did know that there was a real danger of being too on the nose with the theme. Not to mention that he hadn't performed in public in holy shit this was terrifying years.

He personally felt “Can’t Help Falling” would be both an homage to their love and a shout-out to early Camp rockers--Elvis in particular of course. In the meantime, Zayn and Harry were finding themselves together a lot and as compatible as Zayn had ever hoped in his most starry-eyed fantasies.

He and Harry had perfected the art of sneaking around--Harry could get into New York City undetected, for instance, and they both had practiced flying in and out of LAX without being observed. Turns out if you fly coach nobody thinks you’re anybody, even if a couple of times he had been sat next to someone who said, “You look familiar,” and then a few seconds later, “I’ve got it! You kind of look like that guy who left that boy band. What was his name?” 

In his best American accent, perfected with a dialect coach, because Harry didn’t have tons of friends in LA for nothing, Zayn had said, “Sorry, I can’t say I follow boy bands” before he slipped earbuds into his ears and opened a book. 

They never flew the same flight. They never flew in designer clothes. They always wore long sleeves. Zayn had had his “Love” tattoo painfully removed from his fingers and had just recently given in to Harry on the smoking lips and the symbols on his fingers in return for Harry removing the cross from his purlicue. Zayn let his hair grow out and to be safe usually wore a beanie and a high-necked shirt. Love was all about compromise.

Like Harry put up with Zayn smoking on the back patio by the pool in LA and on the roof garden in New York, even if he made him brush his teeth after every cigarette. Zayn had traded smoking weed for edibles, even though he liked the immediate buzz and relative control of smoking. He ate three small meals every day. Healthy meals.

They hired personal trainers to work with them both wherever they were, because Harry insisted that they hadn’t waited eight years to be together only to die prematurely for preventable reasons. They switched, because Harry was a domineering little shit who occasionally needed discipline, their official line, and because they both liked being fucked, which was never to be spoken aloud. 

Things they hadn’t solved: how to tell Yaser. Teresa knew, and she was sworn to secrecy until after the Met Gala. Gigi knew, for obvious reasons, and because Gigi knew Kendall knew. Whether they should live most of the time in New York or LA. Toilet roll over or under--how could Harry possibly think that under would ever be correct? Whether to play Fleetwood Mac or Drake when they were in their comfortable shared living space. Pop or folk art. Which is why they were currently discussing what camp meant.

Harry had read Susan Sontag’s essay, several times, which made him an expert if you asked him, but now Zayn had also read it, which made him challenge Harry’s interpretation. Every image on the internet, every song, every film they watched, went through the Camp or not discussion. Rom coms were a particular bone of contention, as were all movies based on comics.

 _Notting Hill_. Not camp. Not even close.

 _Beache_ s. Camp. Definitely, Zayn thought. Or was it just campy? Harry was terrified of showing up at the Met Gala in campy attire, although he was determined, as always, to be bold and look like he didn’t give a fuck. It was a fine line.

What was the perfect example of Camp as expressed in a rom-com? Could the magnificent _Heat_ , which Zayn maintained was the first lesbian romantic comedy, be Camp? (“Harry, do you really want to debate that Sandra and Melissa are a. lesbians, and b. in love? Of course you don’t.)

 _The Notebook_. Not Camp. Harry was inflexible on this one even though Zayn maintained that Ryan Gosling was Camp, and anything he appeared in was Camp. _Bladerunner 2049_? _Drive_? _La La Land_? 

_Batman_ , the TV show. Just kitsch, according to Harry. Zayn liked to elevate it to Camp, because of he had a particular fondness for gay icon Adam West and wasn’t the show winking at gay with the relationship between Batman and Robin? 

Personally, if you covered up Harry’s eyes, say, in a Batman mask, which Zayn had already begged for, he had the square jaw and full lips that would make him a Batman ideal. Zayn was okay with being Robin; he’d even dye his hair to that reddish brown to match Bart Ward’s. He could imagine the tights rubbing against his bare cock all night--delicious.

“No,” Harry said firmly. They were not going as anything as obvious as Batman and Robin. Not Liberace and Scott Thorson, either, even though Zayn could see Harry as Liberace, resplendent in an acre of jewels, a cape, a quiff like 2012. All they needed was a grand piano, and Zayn would let Harry cover Zayn’s naked body with that silk bejeweled cape as he fucked him into the keys. Ah, dreams died hard.

Elvis Presley, Harry insisted, was Camp. Zayn was thinking about that one. Certainly later Presley, but then he was tragic, and Camp should be fun, like Graceland. Rock acts seemed too obvious, and anyway, didn’t Sontag say that time changed our view of what was Camp, and this was what allowed us to assign Elvis to Camp but kept the jury out on, say, Britney Spears?

“Zayn. Britney is almost certainly Camp, because she is completely sincere and completely without content. Let’s never speak of this again. On that same subject, are K-Pop bands Camp but American and British boy bands not? Discuss.”

Zayn tried not to let it show too much, but he loved these conversations almost as much as he loved Harry. It was new to say “I love you” to the man he “hardly knew” in One Direction, and it made Zayn feel vulnerable and wrong. Mostly, it made him feel giddy and foolish. 

At the same time, he barely could contain his glee at having real conversations about Susan Sontag with someone who had read her and had delved into everything she referenced, but who didn’t know so much more than Zayn as to make him feel tongue-tied or stupid. Love was unexpected pleasures, like never being bored by his lover. Gigi was wonderful, had done so much for him, but her idea of an intellectual conversation was debating the relative merits of _Real Housewives Atlanta_ over _Miami_. Love was making smug comparisons to all his ex-lovers and feeling a wash of gratitude for the beautiful man presently sprawled on the floor at his feet with at least thirty books strewn about him. 

“Couldn’t you talk to Harry Lambert about this, babe?” He seems like someone who straddles the line on Camp very successfully? I mostly never know what he’s trying to say, so I assume he’s Camp as fuck. No?”

Harry looked up at Zayn patiently. “Babe, you’ve essentially lived the last almost four years in a cave. Harry is gender fluid. He’s very on trend. And he can style us. He probably would love to. We’re both androgynous, which is good, and we’re both pretty.” 

With this last rejoinder, Harry climbed into Zayn’s lap to straddle him, pulling his tee shirt off without encountering any resistance. “You’re pretty, anyway. I’m just cute and charming.”

“Is that all you are, Haz?” Zayn looked him over carefully. “I’ve always said “sexy” and I stand by it.”

“Well, your tattoos are sexy, except for those fucking eyes on your chest. I feel Gigi looking at me and judging me, Zayn. You have to get them covered.”

“She doesn’t judge you, babe. She would pay good money to watch us fuck. Does that sound judgmental?” Zayn unbuttoned the only button holding Harry’s shirt closed before running his hands up the toned torso to tweak the pretty nipples.

“Oooh, you know my body, Z. Don’t you want to keep it to yourself?” Harry pulled Zayn’s lips to his right nipple, Zayn’s favorite for reasons he couldn’t explain. “Put some teeth on me. And let’s stop talking about Gigi and fucking in the same breath. Maybe someday we can invite her over for a three way, but not in the foreseeable future.”

* * *

Zayn loved kissing Harry. Since they had been bandmates, Harry had learned to grow facial hair--sort of. If he left it completely alone, he almost had a mustache. Zayn liked to rub his nose against it before licking into Harry’s mouth. Sometimes he would steal Harry’s gum, provoking a “Hey!” but never any other sign of distress. To Harry Styles, nothing lovers did was disgusting. 

Currently they were kissing in bed after sex, sticky, sweaty, and lazy with satiation. It was the perfect way to start a day, in Zayn’s opinion. Harry had taken to complaining, cutely, that Zayn was wearing him out, although not once had Zayn reached for Harry without him responding eagerly. They had waited for so long. Too long. He’d been worse than a fool, Zayn thought as he often did after glorious sex with his babe. He was just going to apologize for being such a terrible wanker when Harry’s one-track mind, finished momentarily with sexy thoughts, turned again to the Met Gala.

“Have you gone through those look books I had people send? I’m liking the look of Palomo--you know, the Spanish designer? I’ve worn a couple of their suits, but of course this time we’ll want something way more avant-garde. Or wait. Avant-garde is the wrong direction. Camp is the other way, isn’t it? We can’t be serious--but I want us to be really sexy. Ugh. Promise you’ll look really carefully while I go out tonight.”

It was adorable. Zayn thought maybe they should just wear bedazzled thongs to the Met Gala. They could get waxed; he had a not so secret desire to see Harry completely free of body hair and to rub all over him like a cat. It occurred to Zayn to wonder what exactly had come over him. Two months with Harry and he was not only willingly enduring the Met Gala but using the event to come out as bisexual. Love was intoxicating.

“H, this is a terrible idea, isn’t it? You’ve been an advocate. Won’t we be making coming out, or whatever it is we’re doing, like, less serious or momentous by waiting for this sort of ridiculous event with a Camp theme?”

“Babe, what in 2019 is serious about who a person fucks? The point is that it’s serious but it’s not important. We can’t do this without it being a big deal, so let’s just go overboard with the occasion and the styling while we refuse to say a word about it. We’ve talked about this a thousand times. Stop worrying!”

But Zayn had always been the worrier, and he couldn’t help but think they were inviting controversy and taking attention away from...well, he didn’t know from what. They were going to kill the theme, though. Harry Lambert has sent some sketches, just accessories and makeup around a few different themes, and Zayn was actually getting excited about going. They were going to look _amazing_.

* * *

“So,” Harry continued, after he had allowed Zayn to lie back gracefully while Harry eased himself up and down on Zayn’s cock until they were both screaming each other’s name and coming abundantly. Time and testing had eliminated the need for condoms, another benefit of a partner. It felt so good to feel his cock surrounded by Harry's unimpeded warmth. 

Zayn was trying to figure out how he could ask Harry to take him from behind and spank him lightly with a riding crop. If he could show up at the Met Gala dressed “gender fluidly,” then surely he could ask Harry to help him explore his pain kink. He was pretty sure Harry had a little sadist in him that Zayn would love to tease out.

They had been staying in Zayn’s penthouse now for days. If anyone needed to see Harry, because really almost no one needed to see Zayn, he had set up his life for just such a circumstance, then they came in after dark, never using the same driver, pulling in the underground garage before being let out as near the service elevator as possible.

It was all very hush hush. Harry liked it for now--it appealed to his sense of drama and his love of secrecy--but it would get old, Zayn knew. Compromise. He would be seen with Harry, after their debut, and he would allow Harry to be seen with all his friends while he stayed home and made art. Perhaps he might cook for Harry, wearing only a frilly diaphanous apron. That would invite spanking, wouldn’t it?

Harry was out for the night again, with a few model friends and Grimmy, who had an annoying habit of turning up in New York City rather frequently. Zayn and he did not get along; Grimmy was a bad influence on Harry, who drank too much when he was with him. Zayn found Grimmy catty and mean-spirited, by which he supposed he meant that he thought Nick judged him in the same way Harry thought Gigi judged him. 

Not surprising that Nick and Gigi adored each other and went out together on their own. Zayn did not like to imagine their conversations, but he was sure that he would not enjoy what they said about him. He was in the sitting room he now shared with Harry, a fire going in the fireplace on this cold and snowy winter evening, looking through the portfolios of a half dozen of the designers that Harry had decided would be good enough to dress them. After much nagging, he had finally agreed to come to some Decisions about a Look for the Gala. 

"Shut up, Haz. I'm doing it. I swear. Go!" Love was choosing a genderfluid outfit for an event that gave you hives three years ago.

Zayn was thumbing through the pages of a leatherbound portfolio when a look genuinely took his breath away. It was a Palomo, a pantsuit, he supposed, and maybe velvet? The color was a rich royal blue, one that would look great on him, and it had cut out shoulders that ballooned into puffy sleeves that reminded him of something a French queen might wear. Hah, a French queen. He’d have to tell Harry, who loved a bad pun. 

He saw that the shoes the model wore on the catwalk were low-heeled; that was good also. And then finally he saw the deep vee of the front that would display the pecs he had become so proud of after months with the personal trainer. If it were custom made for him, it could work with his tattoos rather than in spite of or against them. Harry would want something sheer--and Zayn had no idea to what extent his little exhibitionist was going to cover himself--but Zayn was willing to go so far and that far only. This might be perfect.

He could see a hat with it, maybe--what did they call those little hats women wore in the 40s? And maybe a half veil, but one that could be pinned back at some point. He would wear lush red lips, maybe even get some light lip filler a few weeks prior to give a more feminine appearance, and heavy dramatic eye makeup. Should he pluck his eyebrows at all? He would have to have Harry ask Harry Lambert. And when were they going to tell everyone potentially involved so that they could meet with a design team?

Zayn felt a stirring in his lap underneath the heavy portfolio and realized he was hard. Interesting. Harry was such a muse. He called to Zayn, and out came a dozen creatures Zayn didn’t recognize as aspects of himself. He was even thinking of doing some rather more traditional art, maybe oil on canvas, or poetry within established frames like odes or sonnets. All to his beautiful boy.

A few hours later, Zayn had turned off the gas fireplace downstairs, gathered all the portfolios and look books and swathes and watercolor sketches into a basket chosen just for them, put his teacup in the sink and turned out all the downstairs lights except for a single lamp for Harry. Another change. Before Harry, he could and would go days in his own filth, sometimes until Gigi returned from wherever she had gone and packed him off to shower. 

Then she would order him around cleaning up. She always said that if he wanted a maid he should hire one instead of fucking a model, that there was a limit to how much she was willing to run his life. He never said, but he didn’t want her to do everything for him. He rather liked her bossing him around and making _him_ do everything. He never got around to asking Gigi to spank him, either, but he’s pretty sure she would have done with more enthusiasm than Harry, who was naturally gentle and slow with anything sexual. 

He could tease Zayn for hours, running his tongue around his rim, lightly stroking his cock, licking into his ear, murmuring his filthiest fantasies into Zayn’s ear, and generally working Zayn in a State without allowing him to come. That was Harry’s sadistic side. Zayn was pretty sure he was going to have to coax out a creature in Harry who was a little more stern. Maybe Harry might like to wear something...stern to the Met Gala? He would think about it in bed.

Several hours passed, and Zayn had fallen asleep, as he did pretty much any time he was prone. He loved the bed linens that Gigi had insisted on several years before, which were soft but also thick and lovely to lounge in naked. The bed was exactly the right firmness to ensure that his back, which could be cranky from all the time he spent bent over with a spray can, was well supported. Gorgeous, as gorgeous as his lover, and as right for him in every way.

Zayn woke to a thud and a “Fuck!” Harry had hit his knee against the footboard as he was prone to do even when sober. “Haz? You alright?”

“No! I’m drunk and in pain!” He was also quite naked, which seemed to Zayn to have been a tactical error in coming into a room known for its obstacles.

“Come here, babe,” Zayn murmured consolingly. “Let me kiss it better, my little naked faun.”

“‘M not a faun, ‘m a real boy,” Harry slurred. “Why do you always use the names of woodland creatures when you’re being affectionate with me? It’s not very sexy, is it?”

“And you’re gorgeous but not very sexy shitfaced either, are you? Get a glass of water from the bathroom and some ibuprofen. Full glass, sir.”

Harry grumbled, and Zayn was tempted by the sight of his plush ass and long legs, but no. Ever since they had had, after one of Harry’s late nights, what Zayn thought was a wild late night fuck session that Harry could not remember at all the next morning, Zayn had stopped wanting to give in to Harry’s insistence that he “wasn’t that drunk” when he most clearly was. No sex. Just spooning, and a hungover boy to take care of in the morning.

“Did you look at the books? See anything you like in there? Because I know you like what you see in here,” Harry taunted, sprawling across the better part of their king bed. “Since you won’t touch me I’ll have to touch myself.”

“Ok, babe,” Zayn agreed, knowing that Harry was likely to get through a couple of tugs before he passed out. Had he been able to work himself up to a full hard-on, Zayn wouldn’t be responsible, but he never did. And indeed, 30 seconds later, Harry was snoring lightly, and Zayn was working the duvet from under him to over him. Love. Being happy your lover was home with you, and not caring for anything else. Zayn wished for a moment that they could just stay this way, on their own, forever.


	2. The Event

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Zayn attend the Met Gala and in doing so announce their relationship to the world.

Once they were clean and sweet smelling, and Harry's face had been shaved by an actual barber with a straight razor for maximum smoothness, and once they were styled and heads covered with net to avoid transferring any of the fairy dust off their faces to the apparel of their dreams, Harry looked at Zayn and thought for a brief wild moment that he could not leave the apartment. He wanted to slip the straps off the shoulders of the simple black silk sheath that ended up being their choice for Zayn, a frame for his ethereal yet sturdy beauty, and press his lips all over his upper body, leaving lip tint wherever there was a strip of skin between tattoos. 

The line of his cock, contained in a black silk jock strap, could be seen and desired while allowing the barest illusion of a demure modesty. Harry wanted to tear the black silk of the jock strap into strips that he would use to bind Zayn’s slim wrists and ankles, as if in binding he could hold Zayn in this ephemera, as though he could be frozen in ice like Snow White. Harry had never felt such a need to possess in a life surrounded by beautiful people, male and female. This Zayn was truly neither gender but something new and alien, something transformative. Harry wished to be transformed, to fall onto Zayn with abandon, to act on his every momentary desire, to worship and to desecrate.

He shook his head, and with the movement Harry escaped the maelstrom of conflicted desires that had held him for a brief but profoundly disturbing moment. The simple black sheath was perfect; Harry Lambert had been entirely correct about its capacity to startle. Zayn’s hair was longer than it had ever been, and Harry Lambert had styled it into soft waves that just touched his shoulders. He had been injected with lip fillers two months previous, to test the look, and then re-injected two weeks ago when the new plumpness of Zayn’s bottom lip drove Harry mad. 

His lips were tinted a deep, pure red, his eyes lined with kohl, eyelashes only enhanced with mascara. His scruff was exactly perfect. Harry had made him shave and grow out his facial hair over and over until they determined the exact number of days needed to reach a length clearly but just barely masculine. 

In deference to the pant suit he had first admired, Zayn wore a deep purple pillbox hat with a short veil that just covered his eyes but that could be pulled back when they sang their duet later in the evening. Both he and Harry wore patent Gucci loafers, Harry sockless and Zayn with short black silk socks. On Zayn they paired with his facial scruff and the ultra feminine sheath dress to create a cognitive dissonance in Harry, forcing his brain to attempt and fail to make sense of what he was seeing, over and over. Since he had been familiar with the various parts of this look for several months, he anticipated with satisfaction a similar but more dramatic reaction in the assembled celebrities and media.

Blushing under Harry’s stare, Zayn murmured, “Do I look ridiculous? Truth.”

“Oh my god, Z, you look….I can’t describe it. I don’t want to let you leave the apartment. I want to make a throne for you and put a crown on your head. You’re regal.”

“But not really on theme, yeah?”

“On the contrary, babe. You’re pure surface. I don’t know if anyone will even know who you are, or care. They won’t be able to take their eyes off of you. I’m only going because I’m a co-chair and also to guard you from the slobbering hordes.”

Zayn smiled at that. “I’m going to go to the sitting room and use it for just that. I’m afraid to do anything more strenuous. Well, I’m going to have an edible because I’m anxious as fuck.”

He watched as Zayn glided out of their bedroom. His legs were shaved smooth, as were his underarms, their new softness an enticement amplified by the smoothness the sheath hid, reminding Harry of his earlier lustful imaginings. Harry again shook his head before turning to scrutinize himself in the gilded full length standing mirror of their shared room.

He was in Gucci, of course, how could he have thought for a minute that he could wear anyone else, in a light purple embroidered silk suit of definite feminine lines. The slim, straight ankle length legs of the pant hugged his muscular thighs and rounded bum while emphasizing his own slender ankles, and the silk jockey strap he also wore left little to the imagination. He and Zayn had argued over this point for hours, being so overtly sexual and male, but Harry won, insisting that they acknowledge and celebrate the extent to which they were both objectified and had been since the beginning. It was both parody and homage, Harry thought. The short jacket, with its blood red oversized buttons, was cut low, framing his swallow chest tattoos. Its three quarter length sleeves showed off his anchor while hiding most of his other tats. Nothing underneath, so he could anticipate the slightly nubby texture of the silk rubbing against his sensitive nipples all night. He was already struggling with arousal at the sight of Zayn as he looked when Harry first saw him dressed and made up. He should be fine in a crowd though. Right?

Harry too had let his hair grow for the occasion. He had been wearing a man bun or ponytail anytime he went out for months so that the length of it would be a surprise. Harry Lambert had styled his hair for tonight also in a messy bun, with tendrils escaping everywhere. It reminded Harry of his best One D hair, which was what he had hoped for. His patent Gucci loafers were an exact match for Zayn’s, except his were a dark purple. He wore a deep pink lip, exaggerated cheek tint, and a gold shadow that suggested a color barely present in the material of his suit without matching it. Heavy black mascara made his eyes almost jade. He wore the lotus necklace from his album cover and no other jewelry. He looked good too, gender fluid and sensual. 

Harry was without inhibition and loved his own body, but he felt oddly shy tonight. He looked again in the mirror. His face was smooth for the first time in over a year, and he had never been out in full makeup like this. He was leaving first--he would, with Anna, Steph, and Serena, make the first entrance of the evening--and his stomach clenched at the thought of leaving the limo alone. The limo would return immediately to the apartment to pick up Zayn, under strict instructions from Harry about how to help Zayn get in the back comfortably and without wrinkling, and the speed at which he should return to the Met (slowly, with care for his precious cargo), and then Harry hoped to greet Zayn as he exited the limo, to offer his arm and escort Zayn inside to his seat at least, before returning to hosting duties. Zayn would sit with Stephanie’s boyfriend and Serena’s husband.

Harry had hosted both couples twice in the months leading up to the gala, reasoning that Zayn needed to feel comfortable with the others at the table, especially in the time between his arrival and Harry’s release from hosting duties. He worried that Zayn’s anxiety would overwhelm him and pondered in the privacy of his own mind if he had put too much on this one night. It had seemed like such a good idea months ago, to make a splash and a statement without having to actually say anything, but now Harry wasn't sure. 

Well. He couldn’t change anything now, and the car would arrive in fifteen minutes. He pursed his lips before blotting them with a tissue, then blew himself a kiss. Off we go. He joined Zayn in the sitting room and remembered to put Zayn’s lip tint in his silk brocade bag that held all they needed: lip color, one phone, a credit card. Anything else would be supplied by stylists hovering all night in the wings.

“I’m scared, Haz.” Zayn had never looked so appealing to him as he did now. His arms were so toned and tattooed that the daintiness of the dress emphasized both the masculinity and the delicacy of Zayn’s body, while his face could only be enhanced with the subtle makeup he wore. Once again, Harry fought the desire to lock Zayn in a tower. He was too beautiful for the world, and Harry wanted to protect him.

“I am, too, a little,” Harry admitted. “It’s a lot tonight, but then I remember that you’ll be there, that we’re doing this together, and I can’t wait. I’m with the hottest person in New York. Whom shall I fear? Of whom shall I be afraid?”

“Pretty sure you just quoted the Bible at me, you sexy Catholic schoolboy. Have you planned the after party here at home as well as you’ve planned this event?”

“Babe,” Harry breathed, “you have no idea. We’re going to explore our kinks.”

“Don’t start! I can’t have a hard on in a dress that already shows my cock. What did I just say, Harry? What have you done with Zayn? May I have him back, please?”

Harry gave Zayn his cheekiest grin. “ Yes. First thing tomorrow. And there’s the car. Must go, love. Would kiss you but too risky for our perfect looks and the necessity of going to the Gala. See you **_soon_**.”

* * *

 

“Harry! Are you wearing Gucci? Harry, did you bring a plus one? Harry! Tell us how you decided on this look for the Camp theme?” 

Harry ignored the questions, strolling up the red carpet toward the entrance to the Met. Stephanie and Serena already flanked the door, looking amazing. Naturally his look was restrained by comparison, but this too was by design. Zayn was the star of the two of them. In the meantime, he had only to smile and greet, controlling the butterflies in his stomach that anticipated the arrival of his lovely alien prince.

"How's Zayn?" Stephanie questioned with a smile. "How does he _look_? You look great of course."

"Like an alien prince/princess, of course," Harry smiled back at her. "And thanks, but Zayn will take your breath away. He's ok, I think. A little high."

He wasn’t wearing a watch, but he reasoned that it would take around 45 minutes to an hour for the limo they had hired to negotiate New York traffic back to the penthouse, get Zayn safely ensconced within, and return to the Met from Soho. He heard rather than saw Zayn’s arrival.

It seemed to Harry at first that time sped up and sound amplified as the limo door opened and revealed Zayn's slim, smooth legs, causing him to hear questions he couldn't possibly really hear: "Who is that?" Omg, is that a man? He's gorgeous! Have you ever seen him before?" And then time stopped and took with it all sound as Zayn stepped out from the limo and scanned the crowd. Exactly. Who would let such a being arrive alone? He hurried down the interminable steps to meet his love.

It was a long climb up the multitude of stairs leading to the entrance, and he could hear the murmurs from the crowds lining either side. “Who’s that with Harry? He’s with a man. He has a lot of tattoos. Is that his date? Is Harry coming out?”

“Harry! Can you and your date stop for some pictures?” Zayn had been silent, but his hand on Harry’s arm spoke volumes, clutching him like a life preserver. Harry put an arm at Zayn’s waist, turning them both this way and that for pictures. He couldn’t have said when the murmurs of puzzlement morphed into stunned comprehension.

“Zayn! It’s you, isn’t it? Zayn! Are you and Harry lovers? Are you here as his date? What happened to never having a relationship with Harry? Harry, when did you and Zayn get in touch again? Have you always been in touch? Zayn! Can you lift up the veil so we can see all of your face?”

Harry whispered endearments and encouragement in Zayn's ear as he felt the slight trembling of his body all the way through the hand on his arm. "I've got you, babe. You look exotic and erotic and fuckable, and I'll kill anyone who tries. I'm so lucky to be here with you. You're the belle of the ball, love." He could feel Zayn relax slightly as they crossed the expanse of concrete toward the long flight of stairs that would lead to the entrance.

As they reached the red carpet, they behaved as they had agreed in the weeks prior to the event, smiling and moving slowly toward the entrance, stopping to speak to people they, well, mostly Harry, knew. Zayn, Harry was pleased to see, hugged Stephanie and Serena at the door, and shook Anna's hand, murmuring, "So pleased to meet you. Harry says such lovely things about you." Harry handed Zayn's invitation to the doorman and led him through the crowds to the ballroom itself. Finally, Zayn was seated and Harry could return to hosting. 

Before Harry could straighten and turn to go, Zayn leaned into his ear, murmuring, “Babe, don’t leave me here too long. I need you.” Even his voice had a softer and higher pitch, provoking a desire in Harry to stand in front of him and protect him from all the curious and the libidinous who might dare to speak to him. It was something of what Zayn had always felt for him, he realized. This was how it felt to love someone without reservation.

“I’ll be back soon, love. You know I’m sworn to protect you from the slobbering hordes. Especially Gigi. Is she here yet?”

“I’m serious, Haz. And if Gigi were here I’d like her keeping your seat warm if she’d do it. She’s coming with Kendall, though. I hate all the gossip, babe. The room’s swarming with it.”

“It’s everyone about everyone else, though. Anything else is just trying to figure out to get your dress up to your waist and bend you over the nearest flat surface. Wait—that’s me.” He gave Zayn a wide grin of reassurance. “How many fucks do we give, love?”

“Zero, Harry.”

“Exactly. Chin up, shoulders back. You’re the most beautiful creature at the ball.” Harry lightly caressed Zayn’s shoulder, entertaining a brief thought of his lip color staining Zayn’s silky skin before he sighed and hurried off. 

“Oh my god, H!” Stephanie whispered as he slipped back to her side at the door. “Zayn looks incredible! His gender is so bent he’ll never straighten it again! Holy shit, I can’t wait for us to perform!”

Stephanie and Zayn would perform “Can’t Help Falling,” at Zayn’s request, and for a short pop song of under three minutes that had not taxed Elvis’s limited range, they had required what seemed to Harry like an age of rehearsals. Then he and Zayn would sing “You and I,” his favorite One Direction song for its highlighting of Zayn’s amazing range and the promise of its lyrics, and another cover, Fleetwood Mac's “Landslide.” They had both agreed to refer to their past work without touching either of their albums, both holding so many coded messages of longing and frustrated desire. Then Stephanie would do something, he didn’t know and honestly didn’t care. He just wanted to get through “You and I” and “Landslide” without crying. Without sobbing, he amended. It was just a lot, wasn't it, for him too. 

It was worth it, though, Harry decided. He and Zayn were together, and no one could really ask about it without being rude. It would be a 24-hour news cycle, and then they would be a familiar sight in Soho and Malibu, worth the occasional papping but no more than before. They would have to do an interview, but Harry wanted it to be with _Rolling Stone_ again. He loved Annie Leibovitz’s photos and would insist on her being hired too. He could ask Jeff who might interview them this time, someone easy. 

He never told Zayn the chill down his spine that he got every time Zayn hit his high note in "You and I," nor how he admired his voice. In those days, when he and Zayn had been...doing whatever it was they had been doing, he preferred to reduce Zayn to his beauty, so that his own emotions, locked up tight and ignored, could allow him to believe that they were just about convenient sex, nothing more. He was glad that Harry wasn't around any more, he thought, and that now he could admit freely how much he had loved that a whole verse and chorus had always belonged to them alone back then. Now they owned them all, every word, and they would sing them to a packed house of the famous, without backing tracks, just their own bare voices and the emotion that drove them. 

“Landslide” referenced one of the greatest nights of Harry’s life before this one. Singing it with Stevie Nicks was a pinnacle, a night that at the time he thought meant he could die happy. He would have missed this, he thought, which made singing with Stevie Nicks pale. He never thought he would stand on a stage with Zayn again, and yet here they were. He stood at the back of the crowded room, so full of all the various interpretations of Camp, many of them as obvious as he and Zayn had tried not to be. Others would judge their efforts, as well as the venue and occasion they chose to go public with their relationship. For now, he genuinely gave the zero fucks that he promised Zayn.

Harry resisted the urge to check social media. Zayn had brought nothing, and Harry’s was checked into the coat room, along with his wallet, in his silk brocade bag that contrasted with his suit. Better not to check, better not to know. The doors had closed just ten minutes before, and after chatting with a few late arrivals he had flagged down a server for two glasses of champagne to take to the table. He found Zayn already deep in conversation with Stephanie. She was so good with him, he thought fondly. Zayn was such a prickly introvert that Harry never knew who he would take a liking to and who he would declare impossible. Stephanie understood his anxiety, suffering from it herself, and knew how to put him at ease. Right now she was stroking his bare arm, soothing him, and talking music.

He moved to his assigned seat, placed one of the glasses of champagne at Zayn's place, and reached in to bite lightly at Zayn's ear. "I would kiss you, love, but I don't want to mess up either of our faces. It's almost time. Shall I pin back your veil?"

"Do you mind doing it on stage? When you come up after Stephanie and I sing?"

Of course Harry did not. He would do whatever Zayn requested of him. But he then had to quickly walk through how he would manage to detach the two bejeweled hat pins from the hat itself, lift Zayn's veil with both hands, and then pin it back. Where would the pins be in the meantime? He could just pin them lightly on the edge of the top of his jacket, he decided. Would it take too long? Yeah. Zero fucks. That's what he was giving. He just wanted everything to be _perfect_. Zayn had taken so many risks tonight for him, and he would not embarrass him in any way. Damn the lack of pockets. The lines of their outfits were perfect but impractical.

Applause startled him out of his reverie. As he stood and made his way to the stage, he realized that he had missed Zayn singing with Lady Gaga for god’s sake. He looked at Zayn, waiting for him on stage, his lush red lips smiling for him. He focused on the joy of being next to Zayn again and tried to forget the fear of inadequacy that hit him at moments like these. Zero fucks. He reached Zayn's side, pinned back his veil without mishap, intertwined their fingers, and prepared himself. Deep breath. Zero fucks.

* * *

 

Harry had been working with a vocal coach for his entire stay in New York, but the truth was he had strained his voice for years. Nobody in 1D management had ever cared if the boys’ voices lasted beyond the five or six years of abundant returns on investment that they could count on, and while they got “coaching” it was not about control so much as it was about stamina. They had always used backing tracks, so the goal was always just to get through the evening and have enough voice to go to the next gig. They had all suffered for it, especially Louis, who had the weakest voice to start with. Zayn and Liam had suffered least, Liam because his was the most trained voice to start with and Zayn because he, along with Louis, had the fewest solos. 

Harry had the bad habit of belting every line, and it had meant that he could no longer really hit the high notes that he had strained for while in the band. He didn’t need to do much tonight; the tougher part was definitely Zayn’s. His eyes misted over as he thought of being on stage with Zayn again. He wanted to collaborate with Zayn, envisioning an album of 1D songs reworked for the aesthetic they were cautiously developing together. They wouldn’t make much from it, sharing rights to the songs with so many others, but he didn’t care. It was a sentimental decision, and after tonight he was sure they would have a market.

Harry had been slow to realize how he felt. Sometimes people thought he was slow, period, but he wasn’t. Growing up in front of cameras had made him guarded, his natural extroversion buried under the need to avoid giving offense. His heart had become guarded too, and when Zayn had confessed feelings for him after months of having sex at night and pretending like they didn’t in the day, it had frightened him, made him cool toward Zayn and warm toward anyone else that came near. He had hurt Zayn, more than he had realized.

Zayn’s natural warm-heartedness made him turn bitter and snappish when wounded. He had said things. Harry had resisted the urge to snap back, hurting Zayn even more. It had been Gigi, of all people, who had finally contacted Harry to say, hey, Zayn loves you. How do you feel about him? Harry should be grateful to her, but like lovers everywhere he believed that he and Zayn would have made their way back to each other anyway. He was glad she had cared enough about Zayn to want him to be happy.

* * *

He let himself admire Zayn, his toned and tatted arms against the black silk of the sheath, the little hat set off perfectly by his black waves, the plumped lips with their deep red tint contrasting perversely against his scruff, the perfection of his skin. He made a beautiful man/woman, or probably Harry should say they made a beautiful, androgynous creature. His love. He heard the opening piano notes start, signaling his cue to start singing.

Zayn’s half veil, pinned back with jeweled hairpins, unmasked his kohl-rimmed eyes, huge and shining. They held each other’s gaze off and on for the whole song, the lyrics never seeming more poignant or true, Zayn’s soaring falsetto never more piercing:

_“Cause you and I_  
_We don't wanna be like them_  
_We can make it 'til the end_  
_Nothing can come between_  
_You and I_  
_Not even the Gods above_  
_Can separate the two of us_  
_No, nothing can come between_  
_You and I, you and I_

Harry felt the tears threaten to spill over. Jesus. He usually had so much more self-control. He was briefly grateful for the strict prohibition against cameras inside. He and Anna had become good friends, and she had made a point of getting the word out that anyone posting performances on social media would have received their last Gala invitation. If anyone thought the blacklisting worth it, he and Zayn would weather it. After all, they were out now, really out. For the first time in his life, Harry was publicly in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been lovely to write fluff for these angst-ridden boys. I hope you've enjoyed it too and forgive any historical, as it were, inaccuracies. The aftermath will make up chapter three and will include appearances by the other boys of 1D, as well as Gigi Hadid.


	3. Unions and Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone deserves a happy ending.

Zayn had insisted on going straight home after the Met Gala, no after parties, and to his surprise Harry graciously agreed to skip any additional festivities. They had paid for the dress and jockstrap Harry planned to cut carefully from Zayn’s newly smooth skin, and the thought of it kept Harry in a hum of arousal all night. So yes, Harry was happy to go back to Zayn’s penthouse and explore this new side of his love, thank you. Parties are for singles and long-married people.

As it turned out, both Harry and Zayn were more overwrought than aroused. Once they were inside their own sitting room, with its floral overstuffed sofa that Harry had insisted on buying, and the lamps were casting their soft glow, and the sound of New York traffic hummed faintly through the double pane windows, once they could look at each other, just look at each other, they both got slightly misty-eyed. They stood in the doorway and kissed each other for a long, long time, soft kisses on still-tinted lips, light nips on ears, light touches on cheekbones, until at last Harry said, “Thank you for tonight, love. Let’s go to bed.”

They smiled again at each other, then turned out all but one lamp and made their way up to their--their!--bedroom, where they carefully took off the lovely and custom-made garments, hung them on quilted hangers next to each other in the middle section of the walk-in closet, where the clothes they shared had begun, seemingly on their own, to migrate. Wordlessly, wearing only the silk jockstraps that could not reasonably be worn again, Harry followed Zayn into their shared bath. 

He retrieved a cotton ball from the jar on the counter and wet it with eye makeup remover to carefully wipe Zayn’s eyes free of makeup, and then Zayn did the same for him. Harry wet a flannel with warm water and face wash to apply gently to Zayn’s face and lips, rinsed it with warm water, and wiped his face clean. Zayn did the same. Harry dipped his fingers into the La Mer, rubbed them together, and applied a light coat to Zayn’s face; Zayn followed the routine with tender fingers. They stood before each other, faces naked of artifice of any sort. 

“I kind of wanted to cut that jockstrap off of you and use the strips to tie you down,” Harry admitted.

“Still want to?”

“I dunno, I’m feeling sort of emotional to be honest. Can we cuddle?”

Zayn’s fond smile reminded Harry so much of the old days that he had to look down for a minute. He had missed this Zayn like a limb, as if “If I Could Fly” hadn’t been a moment’s sadness but a statement of how he would live if Zayn were not part of his life, partial, adrift, incomplete. 

“Babe, we can cuddle. You can tie me up and do everything to me you’ve ever wanted. You can tell me a bedtime story. Whatever you want, Haz, it’s yours.”

“I think I just want you to leave that jock strap on, and I want to feel it against my ass all night, if that’s ok.”

“I can do that, H.”

“There is one thing.”

“Kinkier?”

“Depends on how you define kinky, I suppose. Let’s go to London in the next couple of weeks and have a dinner party for the boys.”

“The boys I’ve slagged off in interview after interview?”

“I forgave you, and you hurt me more than anyone,” Harry replied simply.

“You hurt me more than anyone too,” Zayn answered before he could stop himself.

“And we’re finished with being hurt, because we’ve healed, yeah? So I’ll cook, and you’ll bartend, and we’ll all be friends again. I miss it.”

“Yeah, me too,” Zayn said with a sigh. At that, he turned Harry away from him and wrapped his arms around him, nuzzling his shoulder with his stubble. The adrenaline that had sustained them both for the last week drained away, and they fell soundly asleep.

It wasn’t long enough before both men were awakened by the buzz of notifications from Zayn’s phone on the night table.

“Fuck me! I thought I turned those off! Should we look or nah?”

Harry looked at his phone. 7 am. He shrugged. “Probably aren’t going to really sleep anyway. Too much to process.”

The first message was from Teresa: 

_Your dad was a little upset to see the photos but he says that if you’re happy he’s happy._

Harry grabbed his phone as well, since even though he had indeed turned off his notifications he knew messages awaited.

The first message was from Anne:

_Love, you and Zayn looked so happy. Tell me someone got video of the performances._

On and on they scrolled. Harry had congratulations from Jeff, from James, from Mitch, from Rande and Cindy, from Gemma. Zayn had emojis from all his sisters, his two favorite cousins, and a photo of him and Harry kissing at the end of “You and I,” from none other than Gigi. Harry felt positively loving toward her. He would have this professionally printed and framed.

The biggest surprise of the morning was yet to come. Harry had kept Niall informed of his phone number whenever he changed it, and the next three messages made him feel better than all the others.

Niall:  
YOU TWO CAN STILL SURPRISE ME. YOU LOOK BETTER AS GIRLS. CONGRATS AND WHEN’S THE WEDDING

Liam:  
TELL ZAYN HE LOOKED AMAZING I LOVE YOU BOTH ALL GOOD

Louis:  
I FORGIVE YOU BASTARDS ALTHO YOU DON’T DESERVE IT NO REALLY CONGRATS I WANT THE FIRST TOAST AT THE WEDDING

When had they all gotten in the habit of texting each other in all caps? Harry shrugged and texted back all at once: 

COME TO LONDON NEXT WEEK OR THE WEEK AFTER AND WE’LL HAVE A PARTY AND DISGUST YOU WITH PDAs. KISSY!

 

**A few weeks later**

London was warm and sunny for early June, and way too many Londoners were sporting red noses and shoulders from a mistaken effort to get suntans before the weather turned off cold and rainy again. Let it never be said that Londoners trusted good weather or that Harry Styles believed in compromise, Zayn thought.

Harry had, through force of will and sheer exuberance, managed to gather the five members of One Direction at his. They all had London homes--even Zayn, since apparently the market for mansions was soft with Brexit in question--but they were all traveling frequently. Harry had set his mind to a week and kept at them all until finally all had agreed to gather for dinner, drinks, celebration, and airing of grievances.

“Not really, Zayn! Do you think I would really unleash that beast among us? Jesus, I could spend a couple of hours just complaining about Louis.”

They both agreed that neither could think of anything about Niall except a tendency to stay in the bathroom too long, Louis had a mouth on him, and Liam was bossy sometimes. There. Grievances aired, and no feelings hurt.

Anyway, here they all were, for the first time since the Hong Kong show in 2015. Zayn had found himself crying regularly ever since Harry had contacted him almost a year ago to say, let’s meet, let’s talk, I miss you, I know you miss me. It had only gotten worse since the Gala, since literally every fear and suspicion he had harbored for years turned out to be pretty much all in his head. Everybody was willing to be friends. Everybody missed everybody. Nobody wanted to dwell on the past. They all loved Zayn in spite of how big of an asshole he had been.

“More beers? Everyone ready? Help me carry, Z.” Liam pulled him up from the floor where he had been staring pensively at the ceiling as had been his habit from the early days as a band. For a boy from a fairly large family, Zayn was overwhelmed by noise easily.

“So,” Liam began. “Are you happy? I thought for the longest that you never looked happy since you left. Are you?”

“Yeah, of course. I was all….I don’t know, Li, I think that I knew that I had let everyone down, and so instead of just facing it and facing you all, I just built up this idea in my head that you were all dicks and that I was right…..fuck. I was the dick.”

“Now! We said we wouldn’t do this, and we won’t. I just want to know, Z. Are you really happy? Prepared to put up with Prince Harry for the rest of your life or as much of it as you can stand?”

“Yeah, it’s always been him. I think maybe from the very start. It’s probably why I hated the music, because Harry loved it so much. If I could hate the music, I could hate him a little. I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about this too much.”

“You really have, Z. Anyway, you’ve made Niall the happiest Irishman in the UK. He has hated that the five of us didn’t talk. No kidding, he would text me or call me every week or so to ask if I thought it was too soon to invite you up to Mullingar. Then that Vogue interview came out….fuck, why are we talking about this?”

“No good reason. Let’s take beers in.” They both could hear Niall’s characteristic laugh echoing through the lightly furnished house where Harry rarely stayed. Louis’ voice rising in protest over something unintelligible, and then Harry’s sweet, deep drawl, calling out “ZAYN! LIAM! We need beer now, or Louis will murder Niall. Ouch! He’ll murder me!”

Zayn exchanged an amused glance with Liam as he gathered three beers and headed back to the sitting room. This was good. 

After they had all eaten Harry’s vegan pizza and had too many beers, after all the updates had been updated and all the funny stories of the last four years told, Harry seized a lull to state: “So. I suppose you’ve wondered why we brought you here.”

“Uh, not really, Haz. We’ve discussed it, we approve, and we will all be groomsmen, and maybe Grimmy, and then Gemma and Zayn’s sisters can be bridesmaids, and we’ll throw the reception with open bar,” Louis announced.

“Oh! Well. Ahem. That’s very generous of you to settle our futures, but we had something else in mind. Tell them, Z.” Harry nudged Zayn’s knee, where he had settled on the floor with his fresh beer.

“Right. So, we were thinking we might do a single concert performance, like kind of greatest One Direction hits and one or two of each of our solo songs. Here in London so nobody has to travel. Not a huge venue. Add a live stream or make it into a film, or something like that?”

The responses were so typical for each boy.

Niall whooped, “Hell yeah! When?”

Louis said, “Huh. I’m pretty busy. We’d need to rehearse for fucking weeks, too. But alright, I can be in if this is a thing we all want to do. OUCH, Niall! Your punches hurt!”

Ever-practical Liam was practical. “Well, this is great news, actually, and would be great fun. I think the idea of a live stream is a sound one, probably could ask for piles of cash and royalties for re-airings. Of course, none of this happens unless and until all the management signs off.”

As if management anywhere would turn down a cash cow like this. There were logistical and legal and rights issues to be worked out, but they all agreed to one thing: everything was to be split five ways. If they used two of Harry’s songs, they used two of Louis’ and so on. Everything would be equal, as it had been at the beginning. It would be good. Maybe not as good as a wedding, but good.

 

**Setlist: One Direction Printworks London March 25, 2020**

History  
What Makes You Beautiful  
Gotta Be You  
One Thing  
Live While We’re Young  
Bedroom Floor  
This Town  
Sweet Creature  
Pillowtalk  
Back To You  
Kiss You  
Little Things  
Rock Me  
They Don’t Know About Us  
Just Hold On  
For You  
Meet Me in the Hallway  
Slow Hands  
Let Me  
Story of My Life  
Better Than Words  
Ready to Run  
Where Do Broken Hearts Go  
Fireproof  
18  
Kiss You  
No Control  
Fool’s Gold  
Perfect  
If I Could Fly  
Never Enough  
Hey Angel

**Encore #1**  
Steal My Girl  
You and I  
Night Changes  
Last First Kiss

**Encore #2**  
Midnight Memories  
Don’t Forget Where You Belong  
Drag Me Down  
Best Song Ever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit this last chapter is pure fan service. Leave me a comment on what song would be essential to your 1D reunion concert. We can dream!

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, none of this happened, but oh if it had. The usual disclaimers, and they never spoke.


End file.
